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Of nature to perfection half divine Expand the blooming soul. What pity than Should sloth's unkindly fogs depress to earth Her tender blossom, choak the streams of life, And blast her spring! Far otherwise design'd Almighty wisdom; nature's happy cares Th' obedient heart far otherwise incline, Witness the sprightly joy when ought unknown Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active pow'r To brisker measures : witness the neglect Of all familiar prospects, tho' beheld With transport once ; the fond attentive gaze Of young astonishment; the sober zeal of age, commenting on prodigious things. For such the bounteous providence of Heav'n, luu every breast implanting this desire Of objects new and strange, to urge us on With unremitted labour to pursue Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul, In truth's exhaustless bosom. What need words To paint its pow'r ? For this, the daring youth Breaks froin his weeping mother's anxious arms, In foreigu climes to rove; the pensive sage, Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp, Hangs o'er the sickly taper; and untir'd The virgin follows, with enchanted step, The mazes of some wise and wondrous tale, From morn to eve; unmindful of her form, Unmindful of the happy dress that stole The wishes of the youth, when every maid With envy pin'd. Hence finally by night The village matron, round the blazing heart, Suspends the infant-audiance with her tales, Breathing astonishment! of witching rhimes, And evil spirits ; of the death-bed call Of him who robb’d the widow, and devour'd The orphan's portion; of unquiet souls
Ris'n from the grave to ease the heaty guilt
WHEN erst contagion with mephitic breath And wither'd famine urg'd the work of death ; Marseilles' good bishop, London's generous mayor, With food and faith, with medicine and with prayer, Raised the weak head and stayed the parting sigh, Or with new life relumed the swiming eye. -And now, Philanthropy! thy rays divine Dart round the globe from Zembla to the line ; D'er each dark prison plays the cheering light, Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night.From realni to realm, with cross or crescent crown'd, Where'er mankind and misery are found, O’er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of snow, Thy Howard journeying seeks the house of woe. Down many a winding step to dungeons dank, Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank; To cave bestrew'd with many a nouldering bopeng And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan; Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclose,
No sun-beam enters, and no zephyr blows,
- The spirits of the good, who bend from high
THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all till’d, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapp'd it-it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaim’d, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
MARIA ! I have ev'ry good
For thee wish'd many a tine,
But never yet in rhime.
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
From temper-flaws unsightly.
What favour, then, not yet possess’d,
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire ?
None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine ;
And doubtless one in thine.
That wish on some fair future day
Which fate shall brightly gild, (Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRY'D IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wiong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning ;
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations.
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink ?
Upborn into the viewless air
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow,